


Without Music

by BrosleCub12



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Therapy, physical affection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 14:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11579775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: It’s rather a lovely hug, all things considered.





	Without Music

**Author's Note:**

> My first History Boys' fanfic with my two favourite History boys, Donald Scripps and David Posner. This is a rather challenging fandom to write for but I came home tonight feeling inspired after recently taking a rejuvenated interest in the film and decided to give this a go. 
> 
> TW: This fic deals with mental health and anxiety issues, based on Posner's breakdowns as referenced in the play and touches on self-harm. Mostly though, it's meant to comfort. It's been unbeta'ed, so any mistakes are mine. Any constructive feedback would be welcome.

It’s rather a lovely hug, all things considered.

It’s not surprising; it’s Posner after all, and it’s Scripps, who’s never been ungenerous with affection and has always approached most situations in life with a _laissez-faire_ attitude to what other people think, usually throwing a grin their way, a good-natured half-threat to just get the hell on with their own business, if he can be bothered. Pos and Scrippsy, the almost two peas-in-a-pod in their gang of seemingly universal capabilities, anchors and ports and safety nets in any storm. Two of the far calmer, or at the very least quieter, voices in the chaos.

Or so Scripps had thought up until a few weeks ago; today the storm is a therapy session, Posner’s first one in fact and he had emerged to find Scripps, stony-faced yet somehow steady, waiting for him. Posner had smiled at him, still a little white, a little drained out (he spilled a drink the other week at a reunion after staring at it for five minutes and then after mumbling apologies, had left the table and fled to the gents; Akthar had tried to go after him, but had been sent back shame-faced with mumbles of ‘He needs five minutes’) and tugging at his sleeves, as if to hide what’s underneath.

(A mistake, just a mistake, the worst one of his life, five minutes’ idiocy that got him five days in hospital and five weeks and more of therapy, as the chant went, to _everyone;_ his parents, his crying mother; a confused Rudge, a devastated Akthar. Even a sour-faced Dakin, who stood by his hospital bed like a monk, hands in pockets and muttering words far too quiet for the rest of them to hear.

Even to Scripps, who had honestly thought he had forgotten how to breathe, just for a moment).

It’s rather like church, all over again; in many ways, the therapist’s office is – and will be for the time-being, at least – Posner’s temple. It had been a sobering thought, more sobering than the many poems they read about the men who died in war (Scripps has been beating away the whispers and mutters of words that came to his head about it in the numb aftermath, _write it down_ because he won’t, he can’t; not yet anyway).

It was that, more than anything else, that made Scripps reach out roughly with one hand, running it over the back of Posner’s head as though wanting to cuff him, however lightly, for thinking he didn’t _matter,_ however briefly (because he _does,_ Posner is more important than poetry; nothing can explain him away and nothing ever can, not even Posner himself) and rather than asking _anything,_ had simply dragged him into his arms, so close that it felt as though Posner might almost disappear.

The weight he’s lost doesn’t help either, but he knows Mrs Posner is doing her best to feed him back up – he has cheese and pickle sandwiches in his bag, anyway, along with a helping of Cole Porter. The height difference, just a few inches between them; Posner wiry and Scripps stout, is almost laughable but maybe it’s a relief for Posner not to have to tower, to lean on something for once.

The way he wraps his arms around Scripps’ shoulders and presses their heads together says he doesn’t mind, anyway. (And he doesn’t; there’s always been something like home in the rough openness of Scripps face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes shaped like the near-constant smile on his mouth. It’s what a whole life of being told not to judge others has done and knowing that’s a rotten thing to do in the first place, anyway).

They stand there together at the bottom of the steps, Scripps the thing, the man, that’s keeping Posner upright, his hands grasping his shoulders, or what there is of them. It’s the middle of the day; there’s hardly anyone around.

Posner mumbles something then, some line or another from an old poem, not to be pretentious, but because it’s what they know and it seems the best antidote to any situation, no matter how hideously awkward. They break apart, Scripps keeping a rough hand to Posner’s shoulder, wanting to bloody well _see_ him for the first time in a week and see how much the damage is starting to repair itself.

‘Go on, then,’ Posner glances back up, almost resigned, at the house he’s just left; it’s nice, all blue and white, the house of a person who clearly has their life together and wants to help others do the same. His parents aren’t taking shortcuts with this, clearly; it’s a heartening thought, at least for Scripps. ‘Ask me how it was.’

‘How was it.’ Scripps manages to make it sound like a statement, which betrays everything he was ever taught in English class and links his arm with Posner’s as they stroll away down the street. They don’t have their bikes today, which worries him a little, but then God knows things aren’t supposed to be normal right now and he scolds himself for thinking they would be. Anyway, normal for them might never return; it may have vanished altogether from the moment Irwin climbed onto the back of Hector’s bike.

Fact remains though, that he’s got to bloody well _know._ He usually knows everything; he never knew about this until he got the phonecall from Akthar, telling him what had happened and what Posner had done.

Posner tells him, as though they’re dissecting an essay – _self-esteem issues, obviously and we’ve agreed there’s a certain rigidity there that needs working on. Obviously an anxiety disorder, which explains the low marks I’ve been getting_ – and so on and so forth. The therapist is nice, apparently, a rather impressive woman who could be Tottie’s niece, in fact she just might be, she has that same sort of stamina when it comes to dealing with young males of a certain age. Scripps hates the flippancy of it, but it’s Pos and it’s him and it’s all of them, really, it’s how any of them would approach it, really. In that manner, Hector did the same almost all his life, only breaking down at his desk – and comforted by Posner and Posner alone – right near the very end.

(That cannot happen to Pos. That absolutely, unequivocally cannot happen to Pos).

Scripps walks with him – or maybe just navigates; Posner doesn’t seem to mind and lets him lead on – through the streets to the park until they find a quiet spot, a likely-looking tree and sit beneath, as far away from any memorials as possible, still-standing in the way Hector isn’t. He doesn’t think he should be trying to recreate an Oxford feeling, is worried his efforts might create the opposite effect, but Posner leans his head back against the trunk and closes his eyes and it makes Scripps smile for the first time all morning and he hands over an apple and a book, unscrews the Thermos.

‘Thankyou, Don,’ Posner tells him finally, as he accepts tea, in a voice as fragile and whispered as the occasional cloud above their head, marring the otherwise perfectly blue sky; he seems exhausted, somehow, if not after telling the therapist, then at the very least after telling Scripps. Scripps isn’t sure if he’d be able to handle it himself, but then out of the two of them, Posner always seems to be a little more prepared for things like this; _the art of losing isn’t hard to master_ and Posner’s obviously mastered it to a tee.

He considers his response; Posner doesn’t usually thank him for things – not that that matters because he doesn’t, either. There’s all the usual, clichéd rot of _that’s what friends are for, Pos_ and although it’s true – they are, they should be and he _is_ …it’s just not _them_ and another quip about his spaniel heart right now is so out of the question that he deserves a kick in the teeth for even _contemplating_ it.

So instead, he places a hand on Posner’s and watches as his friend promptly turns his knuckles over so his palm is covered by Scripps’ own and laces their fingers together. They place the sandwiches between them, their knees a miniature, shared table and lunch is companionable and simple and mostly silent.

* 

**Author's Note:**

> The line of poetry quoted comes from 'One Art' by Elizabeth Bishop, a truly awesome villanelle.


End file.
